Life just isn't funny. You find old men who laugh and say that life is a joke, and when you wake up in the morning, it will be better. But you fall asleep, and in the morning, there's this light feeling. You're almost giddy with relief. The old men were right! But then everything you were running away from comes back. It threatens to crush you, and you cry out in pain and sorrow. But there is no one to hear you. They have their worlds, full of light, full of joy. No one really understands what it is like to be you. To be a son of Hades.
Then, as soon as it comes, the pain is over. You feel almost whole again. The light is no longer burning. It's refreshing and calming. But you look out your window, and see lightning hit the tallest tree. That's you. The tree. The pain doubles, and you gasp for air, clutching at the light, which blinds you, burning your eyes. Then it fades again. But this time, the darkness stays. It hugs you close, comforting and cool against your scorched skin. It washes away the pain, and it makes you feel better.
There are people laughing and dancing, and singing, and you know they want you to join them. But how can you? How can you be happy when your sister died trying to get a stupid toy for you? You don't mention that the toy means so much more than you let on. You keep it in your pocket, and you polish it every day before you do anything else. Your sister gave her life for that toy, and you have to find some way to repay her.
Someone comes up behind you, and you cringe away. He could have saved her life. HE KILLED BIANCA! He's told you how she died a million times, and yet you see the guilt on his face. It is clear to you that he let her die.
The pain hits you like a punch in the face. It hurts, yes, but there is also that sense of wanting revenge. That blast of energy that comes after the tears have been wiped away with the blood. That cold fury. The hatred and anger welling up inside of you, the pain long dulled by ice and loving caresses. There is a sense of pure demonic rage, and hints of madness, but you hide the emotions, and wait until the next day, where it's your turn to pull the rug out from under your opponent. You wait, and wait, and wait. Then you strike with a passion long withheld. You leave your enemy crying out, the way you used to.
Eventually the anger fades, and you retreat to the darkness again. It wraps you in a blanket and carries you to where you need to be. For everyone, it is different. You see family long since dead, and people you don't remember, from a past washed away in the Lethe.
That is how it feels to be me. And I am Nico di'Angelo, son of Hades. I am the prince of death, and I stand alone.
